HD 'Amortentia'
by tigersilver
Summary: AU; Hogwarts 8th Year. Harry learns that the physical effect of Draco Malfoy upon his person is more than equal to the similar effects of one of the most powerful Love Potions ever.


HD 'Amortentia'

Author: ** tigersilver**

Pairing: D/H

Rating: NC-17

Word Count: 10,000

Warnings/Summary: AU; Hogwarts 8th Year. Harry learns that the physical effect of Draco Malfoy upon his person is more than equal to the similar effects of one of the most powerful Love Potions ever.

**0*0*0*0**

It was the way Malfoy smelled that was _it_.

Exactly_ that_. Harry couldn't quite define it, but he knew what it did to his innards and how it disrupted his normally placid post-war brainwaves, and it was _divine_—that aroma of clean skin, male sweat and lemony aftershave tonic.

It left his groin feeling hot and heavy—swollen, as if ripe. It sent his life blood in a crazykart race through his over-worked veins. It rocked his Gryffindor sensibilities into a Hufflepuff reel, dizzy and breathless in its choppy wake, and then jerked him after it as deftly as a hapless puppet on a twisty string. All the fine dark hairs prickled wildly on his nape in gleeful static when he chanced to see _him_.

Merlin…_Malfoy_.

The aromatic whiff of Malfoy striding past him caused Harry to stumble blind into perfectly stable objects, objects such as corridor walls and work benches and plush, forgiving sofas; it created a maelstrom in his chest and throat that rendered him both gurgling with hot-tongued lust and stammering with barely swallowed-back desire. It was a dangerous thrill assailing him in a precarious perch: the scent of Draco's robes, his verbena hair, even his bloody leather bookbag—a crisp scintillating odour that lent a keen edge to every word that Malfoy spoke to him in passing or—and this was contrarily odd but to be expected, as it was _Malfoy_—a dull grinding throb that gutted Harry, standing. And it happened whenever the git was within any short distance; say maybe less than a yard of Harry, and perhaps in Potions class and reaching blithely for a knife to chop dried purple sage leaves into mince or perhaps politely passing across his meticulously recorded lecture notes from DADA for copying over in the library. Perhaps anywhere a'tall and he was a bloody fool for_ loving_ it. No.

He was _in love_—no, he was in _want._ He was in _need_. That was_ it_, Harry decided.

Need for Malfoy! Imagine!

It filled Harry's lungs with the aroma of a thousand flowering Edens; it caused his normally sturdy knees to buckle and his virgin arse to ache hungrily. The fringes of his daily life were entangled intricately within that awareness—there was, very simply, no easy avoidance nor escape of Malfoy. If there were, Harry didn't want to know about it, anyway. Wrong _it_, that.

He wished to be cast a'sea. He couldn't imagine being returned to that dreary state of 'not wanting'.

To tell the brutal truth, all unadorned, he was far beyond mere 'wanting' and well into mindless craving, and generally within the blink of an eye and a reflexive inhalation every single sodding time that doubly-cursed ex-rival of his marched blind (and naturally entirely oblivious of Harry's monstrous hunger) into Harry's bailiwick. Which happened to occur with the stunning regularity of the usual sunrise, naturally, as Hogwarts was by definition a boarding school and all the students lived in. Ergo, it was all Malfoy, Malfoy, Malfoy, all the time; day in and day out, straight on to bleeding infinity—or so it seemed to a hapless, dreadfully smitten Harry Potter.

Ron was vastly amused by this. But only because of Hermione, really.

"A hopeless case, you are," Ron sighed in ready sympathy, patting his shoulder knowingly when Harry finally unwillingly admitted why he was so very often distracted this term, one evening well after curfew when their mates were fast asleep and snoring. "I feel for you, mate—I do," Ron made that moue he made over the thought of spiders. "Been there, done that—stuck now. T-shirt's not worth it, really. Ruddy pain in the arse, wanting someone. Especially that git. Bet he knows it and he's lapping it up, yeah? You'd better watch out. He's got you going and coming, mate."

The thought of going and coming left Harry a right oozy mess in his bits. He moaned, incapable of thanking his friend even for the sympathy.

Ron, Harry reflected later, was amazingly pragmatic these days, now that Voldemort was truly offed. It was a small blessing Harry had come to count on. But Hermione was exactly the same as she always was.

"Oh, Harry! Have you not told him?" Hermione prodded at Harry, not two minutes after he'd been goaded into 'sharing his feelings' one lazy late September afternoon down on the lake shore. "You really should tell him. In fact, you_ must_, Harry. You won't know a thing about how he feels till you do."

"Oh, but."

Hermione was a closet romantic. No—Hermione had exited the closet and was actually in the foyer. Whatever; she loved to hear of love—to speak of love—to wallow in it, really. Harry thought it might due to all the reams of Muggle pulp fiction she consumed, like bonbons, in between her regular forays into university-level material. She termed the two-sickle novels 'her escape hatch' and he could only boggle at her. _His_ version of relaxing fiction was Ron's subscription to _Quidditch Monthly_ and the occasional porn mag Seamus snuck in. Or perhaps _DADA for the Devious_, a book that had rather mysteriously appeared in his bag one afternoon, recently. Didn't know where _that_ had sprung up from but it had hardly mattered—he liked it, and it had wonderful advice. Likely a passing shy fan had slipped it in his unguarded bag—maybe a Ravenclaw, even—but Harry couldn't be arsed to care about that. He was thankful, of course, for their kindness but then they never let up on him, did they?

All except for that one 'right' person...who was so clearly all 'wrong' for Harry. Or at least completely, miserably _un_interested. Painful, yeah?

Ouch!

Right, so….returning to point: _he_, personally, couldn't wrap his brain 'round the concept of reading about made-up people's romances for fun. Why bother?

"I don't think…"

Reality was enough of a bother; Malfoy the largest botheration of them all. Unwittingly, the bloke stuck his sensually intriguing, good-smelling self dead-centre into Harry's head like a giant road sign, waking or sleeping, and pointing straight down the path to Madness, Population: one Harry Potter.

"How can I?" he'd asked of his old friend—no, demanded. "He's not interested, alright? Not in me, at least."

And indeed, how he _could_, when his poor body went into instant shock at the sheer aroma of Malfoy and then, too, at the sight of that sleek hair—and those steely amused eyes—and of course that tall, elegant frame silhouetted against the various scenic vistas of Hogwarts? It was passing strange, Harry had concluded, that when he'd finally and truly fallen for someone seriously, he'd fallen for that git. Smashingly hard, natch. Par for the course; it absolutely had to be Malfoy—Malfoy!

"He'll laugh his sodding arse off, Hermione. It's me, remember? Me and him—we don't mix, damn it. Oil and water. Piffle feathers and veronica root. Whatever. You know how it goes."

"Oh, Harry!"

Or mayhap not strange at all. Or, rather, not any more strange than Harry's usual circumstances, so it rather equated to being_ exactly_ what Harry should've expected all along, this Malfoy disease he was afflicted with so rudely. Served him right, didn't it? A sort of comeuppance?

"Be serious, Harry, You two are not a Potion, you know. You're just boys!"

"What? What, Hermione? You deny it? You think I'm joking? It's Malfoy, remember? Highly unlikely, okay? Not happening. Chalk—cheese—hmm. I might be hungry."

"Oh, Harry," Hermione glared at him. "You just had lunch, Harry. Merlin!"

Harry rolled his eyes at her—and himself—in quick derision and limply fell back into a boneless heap upon the conjured rug Hermione had so thoughtfully Transfigured her pocket handkerchief into a while before. His friend abhorred (on staunch principle) sand and gravel and damp where they might possibly threaten her precious texts. Harry—who'd enough trouble with his grooming as it was, thanks—could only be happily thankful she was so prissily careful as to mind the welfare of bound parchment and dusty spines. He benefitted directly when she did; hence the thick woolen weave that lay between him and the moist, gritty ground of the shoreline. He was already mussed and leaf-littered and grass-stained after an hour's worth of merely laying about, dozing over DADA and keeping Hermione company; why make it worse instead of better?

Besides, Malfoy might stroll by and see him and then sneer. Well, Malfoy might sneer anyway, but why hand him ammunition?

"Harry, you're not thinking at all sensibly," Hermione remarked, calmly flicking a page over. "Now that we've all settled down and got ourselves sorted out finally I'd expect Malfoy also has some spare time to spend on his personal life. He's seventeen, isn't he? No—eighteen, now. Look, give the gi—man a chance, will you? He's a looker, at least. Nicely built—not hard on the eyes. And you! You should be having some fun, Harry. No more of this pointless obsessing and emoting! Bloody _do _something about it, Harry. Don't be a wimp."

"M'not a wimp," he muttered darkly, scrabbling a slightly sandy hand across his face. "M'just an idiot." He peeped at her, hoping she'd deny it.

"Well…" Hermione grinned at her book slyly, "no argument there, at least. Carry on, then; it's your funeral."

"Thanks for that."

Harry, scowling and shifting about uncomfortably in an effort to avoid her knowing smile, whacked his head on a flat stone hidden under the wool. Naturally and of course, but that was exactly in line with all the other irksome, painful little mini-crises that had occurred to him ever since he'd realized Malfoy was the direct cause for his raving case of the 'hots'. He'd entered a whole new realm of accident-prone since that fateful moment. Afflicted with Malfoy-itis, he was nothing more than a walking disaster zone.

Could be bollocks, so blue they resembled nothing so much as overly large berries; could his nostrils, saturated in eau de Draco; could be his tendons, which appeared to have loosened and tangled.

In a way, it was worse than all the years before that, with the Death Eaters after his arse. More continually painful, certainly. Painful in the way being nibbled to death by ducks was.

Measly burns and tiny scrapes, trailing sleeves caught inconveniently in doorjambs, legs that were apparently permanently Jelly'd when confronted by smooth, flat, easily navigable surfaces—tile and wood and flagstone, it mattered not, Harry could trip somehow and make himself an idiot. Too, there were the accumulated awful and gormless acts of fumbling his wand no less than three times in ten minutes in DADA, and always—and only!—when Malfoy was assigned to be his partner. The embarrassment of stumbling down stairwells he could normally tread blindfolded on a moonless night; the sheer humiliation of repeatedly whacking his shins and his no longer-very-funny funnybone on stray bits of armour and statuary. All of these incidents and more (too minor to dwell on, really, like the tangles in his hair that panged his scalp something fierce when he brushed it) plagued Harry Potter continually. It was as though he'd been cursed, and was left doling out a sulky sort of blame to the oblivious git who was the prime cause of it all. So, yes, he still technically 'disliked' Malfoy for having this horrid effect upon him…but only with a wry, unwilling fond affection, in part fueled by a creeping sense of karmic justice.

It, um, added up, really. In Sixth he'd dogged Malfoy like a beagle, all righteous and suspicious and nasty-feeling inside. Now Malfoy dogged him—though he clearly didn't mean to—and Harry was suffering appropriately.

Hah! If Malfoy only realized it was _he_ who caused Harry far more trouble now, well after all the hostilities had formally ceased between them, than he'd ever managed in all their long-shared history, how he would laugh his arse silly! Or howl—or snort—or whatever action the sexy git performed when he was truly amused. Harry wouldn't know, naturally; he'd never witnessed that. Never bothered and now Malfoy was quite the serious studious git and didn't laugh. Much. Well…he smirked still, but he wouldn't be Malfoy if he didn't. And not nearly as attractive, either.

Harry only vaguely recalled Malfoy hobnobbing uproariously with his mates in Slytherin, before. He'd used to laugh, back then. But Harry hadn't appreciated it then. Now he'd give the moon to see Malfoy chortle—or fall into manly giggles—or even just curl his very gorgeous mouth into a simple wide smile; show off all those marvelouslly straight pearly teeth, even if the mirth was directly due to him.

Hmmm…'dying for a smile'. Did this actually happen, in real life? Harry was of the opinion it might, actually. To him. And it would serve him right, wouldn't it?

"You don't know that, Harry," Hermione observed dryly. She tossed her head. "You're just being a prat about it."

"He will," Harry sighed, inconsolably. "He'll laugh me right out of the room—he'll laugh like a Howler, I know it. I can't possibly, Hermione. Don't even ask it."

"Pish-tosh, Harry."

Contrarily, he'd be ecstatic if Malfoy was amused by him, actually. It would mean the git had noticed him at last—at all. Harry was damned tired of having those grey eyes skate over his person, never really landing. It was as though Harry were wearing his cloak all the damned time, for Malfoy at least. Couldn't be seen; wasn't an entity.

"No, really. I mean it. I can't do that—I know better, alright?"

"No, you don't, Harry," Hermione scolded him, "and don't be such a spineless sop. He's civil to you now, isn't he? When he chats with you in class? No more insults—no more brawling? Assigned and regular study partner for NEWTS Potions and DADA and fellow Prefect, right? You talk to Malfoy all the time, Harry; you're managing to be almost matey, the pair of you. Not Ron-level, but still! Amazing; unlikely, yes—but still so damned true. Don't bother to deny it. I have eyes."

"Yessss," Harry moaned. "Alright, stop saying that—you're correct, okay? But that doesn't matter in the slightest, Hermione! Git still wouldn't look my way, not like that, at least, even if I landed on him naked and gift-wrapped in Galleon notes! He's all set to marry that Greengrass bint—somebody blah-blah Slytherin's younger sister, I think. Dora? Dymphna? Whatever."

"Hmm-mm," Hermione nodded, having heard this before. "Astoria—and she's much too young for him. And also female. It'll never last. Mark my words."

"Still, it was announced in the _Prophet_ last week," Harry continued on, unheeding. This particular offense of the world in relation his Malfoy-infested heart was a huge one; he was rightfully pained by it. Gossip about Malfoy and other people was simply horrid; should be outlawed, really. "Ginny said and she follows the Society pages, you know, and _she_ told me all about it—showed me the candids, Hermione! He's bloody smiling at her, that little bi-bint—right in Madame Puddleby's! And she's got a bloody great diamond rock on her finger!"

"Harry! It's not as if you know for certain she's a bitch. Be nice," Hermione scolded. "Besides, her parents gave that ring for her coming-of-age, Harry. It's an heirloom—the Greengrass White Emerald It means nothing—she's just being Slytherin, as no one outside of school's seen it. They'll hardly be assuming she's engaged—and the Greengrasses and the Malfoys have been family friends forever and an age. That was a party, Harry. There were other people there, not just Draco."

"Yes, well. She is a bitch, Hermione, no matter what you say! This is my heart she's breaking into bits, the little twat! Just by breathing! Wish she's sod off somewhere—choke on that gaudy stone she's got, then."

He muttered darkly, his lips turned down at the corners. Malfoy might smell like heaven but sometimes Harry felt like hell, sod it. Bloody Gryffindor possessiveness—damn his House for being territorial!

"Harry!" She swatted him, and it smarted, but Harry didn't care. It was par for the course, wasn't it? Insult to injury. "Harry, you're a bleeding nutter. And that article said nothing to the point. It was all Skeeter's speculation, remember? I read it too, Harry. Load of Thestral crap."

"Wedding to be in June, right after we graduate," Harry moaned his miserable way through the dreary litany of Malfoy's soon-to-be life choices, impervious to reason. "Honeymoon in the Lesser Antilles. So it's hopeless, really," he sighed and rolled over again to hide his crumpled-up, horribly unhappy face…though he did frankly acknowledge he was fully squashed flat, feelings-wise, and likely to remain that way for some considerable time. What was the point of hiding it? "Hopeless, Hermione."

He'd admitted to himself, hadn't he—and now to Hermione and Ron. He'd…feelings…for Malfoy. Honest ones, that went well beyond just smelling the git—or jumping his bones at first opp. But...ohgods! But—!

"Grrrr!" he growled. "Sod it. Sodding Malfoy. Bloody walking about like he's all that."

"Harry, he doesn't," Hermione sounded as though she was hanging onto her 'reasonable' tone of voice by the merest thread. "He's not like that at all, this year. Lay off, do."

"But, Hermione—you don't follow, do you? Astoria's a girl, alright. Looks like a bloody carthorse but she's got girl bits. It's hopeless, alright? Completely."

At least that was a huge step forward for him, he allowed. A year ago he wouldn't have said a sodding word about it, choosing instead to suffer in silence, with his festering inside him. Or lose his bloody temper and take it out on everyone around him, of he couldn't bear the pressure. And what a wanker he'd been, yes—but it had felt good, in a weird sort of way. Least he'd not been quite as weighted down by his bloody circumstances.

"For me, at least." Harry sighed. What use was anger now? It wouldn't help matters—and Malfoy hadn't done a thing but exist. Sexily, sultrily, attractively—right in Harry's path, the git. "Pardon me for being in touch with reality, but he'll never look my way_ now_, Hermione. He's looking at girls—females. I should just give up on him."

"Idiot boy! You don't know that for sure, do you? Have you even asked him?"

Fucking Malfoy had forced him to grow up, the sod. Harry wasn't sure he was grateful for it. Oh, for the halcyon days of wondering whether Ginny might take pity on him and give him a free snog, since he was an orphan. He's been so naïve then, but now…now he wasn't, not about a lot of things.

"Of course I've not asked him!" Harry was appalled. "What do you think I am—a masochist?"

"Now, look here—" Hermione was at him again in that no-nonsense way of hers, rapidly scanning page after page all the while. "You're not helping your own cause, not by simply brooding over it. That's not your best choice, period. You need to get off your sorry arse and be proactive. Talk to him. Track him down and let him know you're interested, alright? Malfoy's not an idiot; he might see a decided advantage for himself, taking up with you. Give it a whirl, why don't you? You've nothing to lose but your miserable attitude."

"Huh!" Harry snorted bitterly, then heaved a great throbbing sigh. Hermione was full of good sense—and who needed good sense when one was busily brooding over love? For 'busily', read 'hopelessly', as that's what it came down to, in the end. "Should've known the prat would manage get at me in the end, one way or another, yeah? This is so grossly unfair, Hermione; I can't bloody stand it!"

"You're being a complete wet blanket. Pitiful," Hermione reproached him, shaking her head sufficiently send all her curls bouncing. She'd straightened her bushy hair into a wavy fall that was particularly attractive, but the Lake air only caused it to go frizzy again, Harry noticed. "You're stuck in a rut and you need to be out doing something positive about it. And I'm not going to help you if all you can manage is whinging!"

_Pity, that,_ Harry thought, not heeding a word Hermione was saying. _No help for the hopeless_. He lifted a finger absently and spelled the brown mass of Hermione's hair smooth and flat again, and she ran an appreciative hand through her tresses with a small, intimate smile.

"Thanks, Harry," she said. But passing gratitude for a friendly favour wasn't sidetracking her. "Still—a wimp and a bit of right tit, too, Harry," she went on, albeit very fondly. "But look here—if you_ do_ care so much about Draco Malfoy, fine; that's your problem, and I sympathize with you—I know what it feels like to be dependent on someone else for my happiness. But! _But_, Harry, you can't just lay about and endlessly complain. I won't stand for it—I'm rather surprised _you_ have. And Ron's tired of it, Harry—I mean to say, he's complaining to Seamus about you and you know it's bad with him when he does that. Besides, you're not really like this, Harry; you're a better man, deep down; you know you are! So, go! Go, gather up all that famous Gryffindor courage of yours and tell him!"

"Hermione!" Harry flushed bright red at the very thought of it; laying himself that wide open to a Malfoy broadside? Oh, no! He wasn't that daft! "Oh, fucking_ no_—I can't!"

She tutted, shaking a finger at him.

"Can't do any harm, not at this point—and he might very well change his mind over the Greengrass girl if he knows you're the one sniffing after his heels," Hermione went on sensibly, ticking her fingers over in time. "It's possible, Harry—admit it. Draco likes power and you're a powerful chap, even with Elder Wand put away. There's advantages to being you—to having you to claim a bloke as one's own. He likely knows that; he's no fool."

Harry scoffed.

"Hah! More like he'll scarper off the other way!" He was unconvinced and what was more, was still pink-cheeked with his growing embarrassment. "I don't think so—not Malfoy! He's just not into me, I'm afraid. He'll think I'm on at him for some idiot dare or the other—or I'm acting under an Imperius—or something like! He'll never believe I'm serious—why should he, anyway? Really, _why should he_? I did spend all those years believing he was a serious git. I did torment and insult him and basically act like he was a wart. I wouldn't believe him either if he tried it on me. Stands to reason."

"Hmm."

There seemed to be no arguing that statement; Harry felt horrid, knowing he'd willfully argued himself into a blind corner. One even Hermione admitted existed.

"Well, Harry, then you'll just have to give up on him, won't you?" She shrugged the whole of his problem to the side off-handedly, raising her pert eyebrows in patent mockery. "Since you so obviously have already." Also the leading edge of her very look book, which covered the topic of magical arachnids, their various webs, silks and useful venoms, including—or so she'd informed Harry not twenty minutes previous—a fascinating in-depth essay on why exactly Wizards—or most Wizards, Ron being the notable exception—treated them with great care and more than a passing affection. "If you're already convinced you've lost, that is. Give it up, then."

With a sniff, she sank her chin down upon her chest, intent on the text.

"…See if I care."

"Hey!" Harry protested, feeling the need to quibble. Or at least vie for a modicum more of _someone's_ attention—if it couldn't be Malfoy, at least let it be a person who cared for him, willing to hear him air out all his venting of emotional doldrums! "I'm not convinced I've lost, Hermione! I just don't believe I can win. That's different! Not at all the same thing!"

"Pfft!" Hermione snorted, daintily, and remained behind the fastnesses of her book. "No, it's not," her white teeth clacked with a snap behind the ruffle of pages. "But...same end result, Harry. Nothing—a big fat heap of nothing. Now do be silent, please. If you're not planning on doing anything useful and to the point to solve your problems, as it seems you are totally set on, you can at least be quiet about it. I need this information for Creatures. You _are_ aware Hagrid's actually planning to administer us a written test tomorrow? He let it slip at luncheon! He practically never does that!"

Harry rolled over and gripped the flattened sand sparse turf through the thickness of the blanket, wriggling his spine in quick despair.

"Oh, Merlin—just what the fuck I need now…Hagrid being serious about his bloody job description." Harry groaned loudly and shut his eyes in despair, stuffing his head into the folds of the rug. Hermione's face, he noticed, had lit right up like a sodding Christmas tree, as she was—naturally-enormously excited about the upcoming exam. "That—that _sucks_, Hermione. How could he?"

"Huh!" she huffed, bobbing her head. "Well, I don't think so, Harry. I think of it as an opportunity. But then…"

Harry didn't mind exams so much, nowadays, as he had a great deal more time available to revise. It was who he'd be paired with, come tomorrow: Malfoy, his heart's own nemesis.

"Yeah?"

"I'm not a wimp, Harry, not like you. I take life's opportunities as they come and make use of them."

"Oi!" Harry scowled. "Uncalled for!"

"But true, isn't it?"

Harry grumbled, but he didn't bother to protest.

He—well, Malfoy was once again taking Magical Creatures, which he'd not done in years; likely aiming for an easy NEWT, and thus he, Harry would be subjected to yet more wild-arse crazy Malfoy pheromones in the morning, straight after their shared Potions lecture. A double dose, then, with barely any time to recuperate before they trotted off to Transfigurations for an extended afternoon lecture. Throw Sinestra's required Astronomy practicum in the evening into the mix and Harry wagered he'd end up far closer to death via prolonged over-exposure to Malfoyshness than he'd ever been, back in the good old uncomplicated days of dodging absurdly powerful, completely mental, megalomaniac Wizards.

He groaned again, distressed in advance. This time Hermione ignored him completely, having already made her point.

Oh, bloody hell. Oh, for Merlin's sake. His bloody nose was now adding insult to injury—conjuring up the intoxicating smell of Malfoy, right out here by the breezy Lake side, where Harry had been positive he'd be fairly safe.

Perfectly polished boot tips appeared on the edge of his vision. Harry peered sideways and up through his lashes, his chest thudding in instant reaction.

Gods, but Malfoy was gorgeous!

"Granger. Potter," Malfoy nodded at them both with his usual savoir-faire. He'd crept up on cat-feet (well, rather nice half-boots) from parts unknown, though likely the Castle proper, whilst Harry had been basically blind and deaf to his surroundings, moping up a storm. "Granger, may I borrow your notes for Arithmancy? Zabini's got hold of mine but yours are likely more accurate, anyway. Would you lend me them?"

"Oh, Draco!" Hermione, startled, cast her tome on magical arachnids flying up from her lap with a jerk. "Oh, sorry—didn't see you there."

"Ah! Ah, _fuck_!"

Harry, already in the act of stumbling and struggling to get his feet under him so he could sit up and face Malfoy like a man rather than a heap, managed to take the corner of it right to his unguarded temple. He fell back again on the plaid beneath him with a loud flop, feeling horribly dazed.

"Sorry—really, I_ didn't_ see you there," Hermione, flushing faintly under the steady gaze of their fellow NEWTS-track student and ignoring her mate's latest little accident. Harry had so many these days, it was rather a running joke between the three of them. "Ah, right…certainly I can. Yes, not a problem. Hang on a moment while I find them?"

"Surely," Malfoy replied, shifting his weight and casually standing back. "Take your time." His eyes shifted to Harry, who was moaning faintly where he lay splayed, green eyes wide and staring. "Thanks, then. I'll owe you, alright? Oi, Potter. What're _you_ doing? Sunning?"

"Oof!" Harry exclaimed, fingers gingerly finding the lump upon his left temple, carefully feeling about for the inevitable bruise. "Watch it with that thing, Hermione! It's a lethal weapon!"

"Sorry, sorry," Hermione murmured as she dug through her bottomless bookbag, but clearly she wasn't at all 'sorry'. Harry scowled, going up on an elbow, and quite carefully not staring at Malfoy. It was enough that he could smell him; he didn't need to add to his misery by considering just how close Malfoy was to him at the moment.

"No!" He scowled up at Malfoy. "I am certainly _not_ sunning, prat. I am—I am swotting, alright? DADA, I'll have you know. Not that it's your business what I do!"

"Really, Potter," Malfoy sneered. "You're laying about like a bleeding gecko on a rug—swotting, alright, I hear you. But—tell me this, then. How can you possibly manage to injure yourself simply doing nothing worthwhile? You're just there and you take a book corner to the temple, Potter? Come on! Pathetic! That makes three times I've seen you harm yourself since breakfast. Are you damaged or what? Mental, maybe? You must be—you're pretty damned clueless, if I do say so myself."

Hermione had the gall to giggle. The little bi-bitch!

"Huh? Ooooh!"

Harry's expression went blank, as he considered briefly the consequences of grabbing one of those perfectly cobbled loafers: a twist of the ankle would send Malfoy tumbling down atop him…and it might be considered an accident, his inevitable rough grope. He'd give most anything to get his fingers on that arse, even a thorough hexing by a brat of an ex-Death Eater. Malfoy smelt so very good, it was heady—intoxicating.

Oh, oi? Had he been struck on the head recently, 'cause what was he_ thinking_?

"You've noticed them, Malfoy? Harry's little mishaps?" Hermione stopped in her absorbing task of excavation long enough to ask of Malfoy, eyes on him like ravens on a fresh carcass. "Hmmm. That's…interesting."

"Well…yes."

"Er—what?" Harry piped up. "Why're you two talking about me? I'm right here, aren't I?"

No, of course that would never work, Harry huffed to himself, inflating his cheeks and blowing the air out with a frustrated little puff. Malfoy would catch on immediately (and likely hex Harry to death) and Hermione would giggle her arse off over his ineptitude, later. More than she was already, the twat.

"Of course I did," Malfoy nodded, blandly ignoring Harry. "Have, I mean. How could I not? It's Potter."

"Of course," Hermione echoed, smiling, as if that made perfect sense and could be used as a valid excuse. She nodded with some species of arcane female satisfaction, still rummaging through her bag for the requested notes. "It is, isn't it?"

"Pfft," Malfoy tsked and proceeded to calmly turn his gaze to view the Lake, his expression serene. "Obviously, Granger."

"Obviously, Malfoy."

"Huh?" Harry said, shaking his head to clear it. He placed a cool hand on his forehead, where it throbbed, and considered spelling his headache away. But better not; the pain might serve to keep him still and quiet and out from under Malfoy's expensively shod feet, which would be best, rally. He'd have plenty of opportunities to make a fool over himself over bloody Malfoy on the morrow. Besides, Hermione's references were always the most expansive and weighty—they'd make for fine full-body shields if ever she needed to use them as such. "What? Malfoy?" he added, feeling slightly addled. He was entertaining odd thoughts—he should chill. "Could you two maybe stop that, please? It's annoying, alright?"

Very addled, actually.

"What, Potter?" Malfoy glanced down at him, smirking. "You're back with us again, then? How pleasant. You might even endeavour to greet me—politely, this time. I prefer that to your usual Neanderthal growl, thanks."

"Git," Harry growled, and glared up at the sight of all he couldn't have and all he lusted over. "Prat." That bitch Malfoy was to marry? Harry hated her! And Malfoy? "Nitwit." Harry hated him, too, just for even considering marriage to some bint who didn't love him, likely, when Harry was right there—right there!—sprawled at his feet like a bloody offering! "Prick. Piss off, then, if you're going to be snide."

"Oh," the pale eyebrows soared, "I'm not being snide, Potter," and the white teeth flashed. Harry closed his eyes briefly against the lust-love combo that sloshed through him like battery acid. Malfoy chuckled, obliviously amused. "I was just taken aback, a little. You…surprised me."

"R-Really?"

Harry frowned. He had? He'd no idea how, then, as he was just being his usual self—an utter fool before Malfoy's eyes. Beside him, he could hear the rustle of paper and Hermione's almost entirely silent snickers. He poked her sharply in the ribs and glared up at the angular face that had already sunk a thousand helpless Harry-ships.

"I don't know what you mean!" he snarled. "I haven't! I've not done anything to you, Malfoy! Nothing recently, at least. 'Cept maybe save your arse in DADA yesterday—remember that?"

Malfoy cocked his chin, the one Harry longed to gnaw on, and sent Harry a long slow inscrutable look from under his smoke-tipped pale lashes.

"That's just it, git. You've not done…anything," he leered elegantly, ignoring yesterday's incident in DADA altogether. His eyebrows did a funny thing, going up and down, pumping; Harry found it to be amazing sexy. "Anything at all, even when you've been offered a cornucopia of opportunity. A feast, even. I find that very…odd. Intriguing."

"Wait—what?" Harry gasped, scrambling up on his knees in a flurry. He stuck a hand out and grabbed at Malfoy's open robes, unthinking. Hermione stopped her search abruptly and went into a great peal of loud girly laughter, gasping and giggling and generally making a fuss. "Odd?" he howled. "Since when am_ I_ odd? You're the one toting out spells from the bloody Dark Ages in DADA, Malfoy—and you're the one who wanted us to brew Amortentia for our Potions project! That's fucking odd, if you ask me! What in the blazes are you planning to do with that? Dose your little Slytherin slut of a fiancée?"

"Oh! Oh, _precious_!" Hermione snorted, her cheeks damp from happy tears. She shook her head, delighted. "The boys are fighting again—like an old married couple!" Malfoy ignored her antics; Harry only stared up at him, goggling. "So darling!"

He wasn't an idiot; not he! He wasn't gullible, either—so, erm, what exactly was Malfoy implying? Odd, how?

How odd?

"Well, Potter?" Malfoy tapped a toe at him, and then prodded Harry's elbow with same, gingerly. "Nothing to say for yourself?"

"What d'you mean, Malfoy?" Harry demanded suspiciously, his eyes darkening with the beginnings of anger. He might be in love—lust, desire, utter emotional chaos; whatever!—but that didn't mean he'd let Malfoy fuck with his heart. "Say what you _mean_ for once, git! Don't be sly! I don't get you! And don't talk about spells and potions when you mean something else entirely—I'm not a brick, you know. I can thnk for myself, thank you!"

"Hmm. Like that, is it? Well…"

Instead of responding, Malfoy glanced over at Hermione, who'd given up on her search for the requested notes and was in the midst of hastily gathering all her various things together, tossing them into her bag willy-nilly. Excepting the tartan, of course. Because Harry was still planted upon it.

"Er, d'you mind, Granger? I can pick them up later if you can't lay hands on them now. No hurry, really."

"Oh, no!" Hermione chuckled. "Not at all, Malfoy. Please," she gestured carelessly, "have at it. Harry," she added, turning to him as she slung her bulgy bag over one shoulder, "do _try_ to be coherent, alright? At least for a moment? Use words, Harry. Together—in rows, with punctuation. You'll find they're all very helpful."

"Sod off, Hermione!"

And with that cryptic _bon mot_ she was off at a trot towards the castle and Harry was left gaping at her jaunty arse cheeks under her newly well-fitting school robes, turned pertly toward him as she made her way back to the Great Hall. She was practically skipping, Harry noted, vaguely affronted. How…weird of her.

He had to ask—especially if he was being abandoned with no apology.

"Oi! Oi, Hermione!" he called out. "What in the blazes does _that_ mean? Come back here at once! _Talk_ to me!"

She only giggled, faintly belling sounds in the growing distance. Harry turned appalled, unbelieving eyes upon the countenance he knew so very well, it was bloody ridiculous. The familiar features were smirking at him, familiarly. Sexily—come-hither—no! Wait. Not _come-hither_ at all. Harry tromped down his urge to leap forward and wipe that smirk off with two lips. Actively snogging ones, too.

That would never fly.

"Confused? Poor Potty."

"Urk!"

"Are you baffled, Potter?" Malfoy's voice—another one of Harry's inner pitfalls of want-need-lust—sounded quite close to his one ear. "We don't want that, do we?" Git had dropped down his knees when Harry wasn't noticing and was sharing a good half of Harry's rug, arse situated not a hand's-breadth away from the fist harry leant upon for balance; a bony hip budging his familiarly and knuckled hands planted on either side of Harry's half-raised shoulders. He was effectively trapped. "Don't be. This is pretty easy to follow, what happens next."

Harry twisted his neck, peering between the speck that was his disappearing best mate and the looming sex-pot that was Malfoy, almost wrenching tendons in his hurry. He bravely met amused grey eyes and an intriguingly seductive half-smile. He nearly swooned at the sight of that combination.

"Now, you see, I—" Malfoy indicated himself with a poke to his chest, "snog you, and you—" and then he poked Harry, similarly, "love every sweet second of it. Alright?'

"Ah?" He gulped nervously. "M-Mal-ur?"

But they not only merely amused, Malfoy's expressive eyes; there was a flare of something deep and heated in the cool depths. A fiery lick of…of desire? Maybe? Could possibly be?

No! Harry couldn't be that lucky—besides, Malfoy was to marry! He'd been told all about it and from the mouth of Ginny Weasley, no less!

It sent him into a full-out panic, that. He struggled and squirmed backwards, frantically seeking space before he leapt all over Malfoy anyway and clung like the slaggiest of slags, but Malfoy didn't allow him much freedom, if any, snaking a quick deft hand 'round the back of Harry's neck and stilling him carelessly with that single, brilliant touch.

"Oh, no," he muttered, his features sharp and predatory. "Not now, Potter. Not when I've finally got you all to myself. No bolting."

"What—what!" Harry gabbled, pink and flushed and gone dizzy. "You—aren't you—gah!—engaged or something? What're you d-doing?"

"Hmmm," Malfoy drawled, "essence of Potter. How...sweet. My choice of descriptors was more than accurate—mmm. Hot, too. You do know you're hot, Harry?"

Skin! That was Malfoy skin, touching Harry-skin, and it was—it was enthralling! He never wanted it to stop; he could happily expire here, his nose an inch from Malfoy's pointy one, both of them breathing heavily, and tension rife in the humid air.

"I think I like it," Malfoy smiled. He licked Harry's jaw, then dew back. "Yes," he announced. "Delish, Potter. C'mere, then."

"Get off me, you lout!" Malfoy didn't; he did the opposite, actually. Harry panted at the weight pressing him inexorably down into the sand.

"Um…" Malfoy smirked. "No."

"Oi! Erm, what _are_ you on about, Ma-Malfoy?" he stuttered, barely cognizant of the fact he was in the throes of being bourn backwards in a thudding rush, arse over teakettle, or that one hand had slipped under the back of one of his knees and was yanking it upwards. "H-Hey!"

"You! You're a hero, remember?" Malfoy taunted, leaning close. And closer yet, his fine grey eyes narrowing with intent, his arms bunching muscle as he flexed them, till he was arched over Harry like some great hungry raptor over an unlucky bit of terrified fluff. Harry was far from being frightened, though; on the contrary, he was beyond all that. He ceased any attempt at inhaling or fleeing and only stared up at Malfoy entranced; he didn't want to miss an instant of viewing Malfoy's pores up close and personal; nor a second of this golden and unexpected opportunity for bathing in that Malfoy air, that Malfoy sensation. "Do what heroes do, Harry. Take action."

"No, I—" Harry sagged as Malfoy's lips touched his, ever so briefly, and pulled back. "But—what? You!"

It was so, so soft, the feel of Malfoy's mouth and yet it seared him. It left him jittery and blissed out and panicky in a good way—the best way. Sexual tension; the sort that one could hack away at with a butter knife for eons and never make a dent in: that was practically a palpable force between them, pulsing. And too, there was this godawful feeling of being left bereft when the quick, dry brush of lips withdrew, as if he'd been granted heaven for an instant, only to have it ripped away.

"Harry."

"Malf—"

When had his name ever contained that particular degree of buried, layered, burbling-over the brim meaning? Harry wondered, in the split-second before he gave up on such mundane acts as thinking in favour of only feeling. When had he ever felt he'd just been helplessly captivated by a more powerful source of magic than even his own—and then loved it? Wanted it to continue so much so he could taste his own desire pooling in the back of his throat, in the crevasses between gums and molars; was willing to beg to have it consume him?

Malfoy's tongue tasted quite as brilliant as the git smelt; it was on par with Turkish Delight, or with the first real Feast Harry had ever taken part of, years ago when he'd first arrived at Hogwarts, a half-starved child. It was the best part of every scrumptious dessert he'd ever eaten: the joy bite, the first and last savour of salt-tangy-sweet on his quivering taste buds. All that and more, wet and wild and tangling him up in infernal coils of delight as it twisted within him.

Harry, responding like an opium addict, cracked his jaw open as wide as he could pry it and angled his head for better access, arching his throat in silent submission. Malfoy wasted no time following his tongue with the rest of his excellently fit self; he'd pinioned Harry's wrists and was clambering to cover him in an instant, pressing Harry flat into the rug.

"Mmmm, " Harry groaned, of the opinion there was no finer taste to be had in the world but this one he was tasting. "Mmmm…"

"Mmmm-hmmm," Malfoy echoed agreeably, the sound a deep humming purr emanating from the chest Harry had so longed to lay hands upon. He smacked his reddened lips and blinked narrowed, hazy-pewter hued eyes when he finally drew back a scant inch to allow Harry a scant breath: a great feline, terribly pleased with the prey he'd chased down and conquered.

"I—You—erm," Harry, feeling as though he ought to say something, no matter how gormless, attempted it, spluttering. He felt logy and quiescent; if Malfoy wanted it, Harry wouldn't be at all averse to being plundered as he lay, here on the lake shore, on the edge of the wild. "Please!"

"Oh, yes," Draco Malfoy was very pleased with himself, it seemed. He regarded the length of Harry's slight rumpled figure with a fond and possessive eye, and Harry, feeling the sweep of it almost like a physical caress, thrust his spine up in gut reaction, jerking his hips so his cock jiggled within his shorts, chafing. "You're exactly what I've been wanting, Potter. Exactly."

"Ohgods!" Harry swore, as Malfoy ran a hand down his sternum and his robes and the shirt beneath fell open. "Please!" he said again, and clutched at Malfoy's wide shoulders. "I want—ca-can we?"

"Yessss," Malfoy hissed, and it was poison in Harry's veins—the finest kind to be brewed in any cauldron. It swamped any lingering doubts; it ripped his reserve away completely and left him open to anything Malfoy might want of him. On the gelling thought he hastily spread his legs beneath the weight of Malfoy's long ones, wriggling about madly so he was able to bring his knees up and clamp them tightly about Malfoy's narrow waist, excess cloth bunching every which way.

"Please-please-please!" Harry returned the hiss thought tight-clamped teeth, the edges of them pinching his lower lip. "Oh!"

"Of course we can, Potter," Malfoy sighed gustily, dropping a stray kiss on the corner of Harry's mouth, the tip of his tongue picking up the tiny red velvet pearl of blood that welled in the centre of the lower one."What did you think I ventured all the way down here for—mere handholding? Hah!" He emitted a short, sharp bark of amusement, and Harry revelled in it: the gleam in grey eyes, the tiny curl of twitchy upper lip, thin, pink and highly snoggable.

"Ready?" Malfoy wasted no time, grinding his thighs against Harry's; his dick was like an iron bar trapped behind the thin woolen weave, a bludgeon designed to carry Harry away to some new sensual horizon he'd never even dreamt of.

"Merlin fuck, Malfoy!" he gritted, meeting the hip swivel action with glittering eyes and a growing feeling of inevitability: had it always been only this they'd each wanted? All the other had mounted to only some years-long sort of rough foreplay?

Harry didn't care—couldn't care about much other than what he was feeling. It was ungainly, maybe even uncomfortable, his position, but Harry could care less than snap for all that. Here was all he'd been gagging after for months now, laying comfortably atop him, drowning all his senses. Who gave a flying fuck whether Malfoy had actually come for him or for Hermione's religiously accurate notes?

"Ugh!" he moaned, rocking his hips frantically between the wool tartan and the rigid bones of Malfoy's pelvis, eyelids squinched tight in desperate delight. "Please, Malfoy—do it! I'm asking!"

"Like this, then," Malfoy murmured, and fingers tickled at the hollow of one of Harry's hips. Cloth vanished and he was naked below Malfoy's descending school robes and shivering at the sudden kiss of air over his skin. "Just like this, Potter. Open wide for me."

"Come on, come on, come on," Harry chanted, not hearing a word. "Come on, then!" His thighs spread as wide as they could go, bones popping with effort. Malfoy grabbed his kneecaps and shoved them higher and farther apart despite that, till they banged Harry's ears in the process with a muffled thump and a ringing sensation. He could care less.

"Budge up, now, then," Malfoy hummed happily. "Lubricious, and-and here; you ready, Potter?" he snarled. "_Be_ ready!"

"Yes!"

"Ready or not, here I come," Malfoy snickered, but it wasn't evil—more gloating, but in a good way. Harry couldn't give a fig. "Harry Potter. Hope you're ready for me, now I've finally got you where I want you," he chuckled and Harry glared at him nastily—if only for taking up all their precious time to talk about it.

"Shut up! Fuck me already, Malfoy!" he commanded, flinching even as Malfoy held him helpless and spread and jammed two fingers into his quivering arsehole. "Fuck me now and fuck me hard, but fuck me!" Harry babbled on, for who knew when this dream night end? He wanted the very utmost out of it in any event, whatever was happening. He'd not thought it could happen, and it might not be, actually, but who cared? It felt real enough. "Fuck me!"

"Oh, I am," Malfoy was all smiles; they wreathed his face and rendered him completely gorgeous. Harry, with blunt nails gently scraping the inner ring of his clenching arsehole, felt his mouth drop open in wonder. "And you're beautiful, Potter. I can't wait for this—have been wanting you for ages now, you know?"

Harry's eyebrows went soaring up in wonder, even as the fingers were joined by a third, all twisting.

"Ngh? Gah?" he replied, or tried to. That wasn't expected! "Malf-"

Three fingers, all deep in and searching, reaching for a little bundle of nerve endings Harry knew well from his own explorations; finding it and skillfully manipulating it into a pulse of blinding ecstasy. And all the while tongue—Malfoy's—and also teeth, invading his drop-jawed orifice with passion.

Harry moaned, attempting to impale himself on both intrusions, quivering and gasping fitfully.

"Harry." It was breathless whisper in return; Malfoy turned to Harry's throat, lipping over Adam's apple and the straining cords of tendon by his pumping carotids, nipping until he reached Harry's sensitive earlobe. "Ready for me, now?" Malfoy asked, his voice a mere reedy thread, and Harry nearly broke his neck, nodding. "We'll go slow, I promise. Pretty Harry."

"Ple-please!" It was a blink and half, no more, as Malfoy reared up, dropped trou and lining his cockhead up against Harry's smeared and waiting arse, the lubed fingertips traveling from sphincter to dick without pause, spreading the slime of sex. 'Oh-gods-AHHH!"

No time to brace, no time to inhale; no time, no time, no time! All was right now and fuck, yes! And Malfoy's brilliant grey eyes, burning into Harry's wide ones, the fingertips of one oily hand nearly poking Harry's eyeball out as his spectacles were ripped away from him and tossed summarily.

"Now, _now_," Malfoy growled, "now I've got you! Now you're mine—and don't forget it!"

"Oh-gods!" Harry squeaked, for it panged and it burnt and he was being stretched to the point of ripping and he could care less. Only wanted more of it, more of being Malfoy's. "Ye-ye-yes!" he managed, as Malfoy jerked his hips back, a slippery sucking noise accompanying it, one that dripped of lust, inbound. Harry closed his eyes tighter, almost unable to bear it, it was so fantastic. "Oh-oh-ah-ye-!"

Malfoy slammed home, Harry's knees bent in half against his collarbone and whitening with the applied pressure, propped up against yet still sliding clumsily off the planes of his broad shoulders what with all the sweat mingled, his face pointy-sharp with intensity and his cheeks hollowed out with visible want. Harry thought he was absolutely mind-boggling beautiful, this impassioned Malfoy; he could gaze for hours…if he didn't die of painful bliss first. His intestines rocked on their pinions as Malfoy ploughed in; he was jangled up and rearranged on every level.

Owned.

"That's right!" Malfoy growled, white teeth a banner valiant. "Take me, Harry. Take all of me, Harry—beg for it! Say my name, Harry!" His gaze was cruel and sharp and wild; Harry melted.

"Please—yes—Malf—Drac—" he panted, rocking under the force of rapid thrust and withdrawal, "I'm—yours—Dra—cooo!"

" That's right, that's right," Malfoy was beyond pleased; he was triumphant. "Oh. Perfect Harry. That's what I need to hear, Harry—_again_!"

"You—yours! Oh-ahhggh!" Harry's head thumped that stone, the one that lurked viciously beneath every picnic rug in existence, and it hurt. He didn't mind it. "Please—yours—oh, Merlin—Draco!"

"Harder?"

"Yessss!"

"Talk to me, Harry," Draco coaxed, his mouth twisting. "Tell me how you want me!"

"Any—every—ple—just—more!" Harry was departed; was here and yet not here; he'd say anything, anything Draco Malfoy demanded of him. "I've—I've wanted—you," he gasped, the burn resolving into a smooth, rapid motion within him, Malfoy's hot breath ghosting over his nostrils, "for—so—long!"

"How—long?" Malfoy was insistent; he couldn't possibly go any deeper into Harry, but he did, impossibly. "How fucking long, Harry? Tell me!"

"—ever—and—ever—"

"And—"

Harry was hauled up bodily, the jackhammer throb against his prostate receding to a mind-numbing pulse for the space of two ragged gasps, and settled in Malfoy's lap. He was speared with what had to be a cock half again the size of his own and it was _gods, fuck me_! and Harry could care less if the blasted thing killed him.

"And now, Harry—what of now?"

"Wh-what?"

He didn't understand; no, not at all! What was Malfoy talking—saying—wanting of him, now? Wasn't he already giving over all that he was; all he was made of? What more could there be?

"Aft-after!" Malfoy was eating Harry's skin on his neck; chomping down by mouthfuls, leaving welts and bruises, purpling and stinging with warm wet. His voice was muffled but extraordinarily insistent. "Later! Harry!"

"I—I—you!" A particularly deep gouge of cock had him arching up in his trembling knees; Malfoy was so strong within him and his poor tortured bollocks were so very tight they'd bust soon, and why, oh why hadn't Malfoy touched him there yet? It was horrid! It was just like—what an evil git Malfoy was, even if a gorgeous one—

"Harry, Harry—" Malfoy panted. Never ceased moving his lips across Harry's flinching skin, never lifted them or lost contact, but his dick stilled, finally, and Harry dazedly mused that he might very have its fiery head poking at his hapless lungs next. "Harry, this doesn't end here, you know?"

"Huh?" It was all Harry could do to keep his attention from straying. Malfoy sounded so serious, so intent. He was entranced more by the tone of words than the actual meaning. "Er?"

"I'm shagging you tomorrow, Harry—got it?" The question was a bark, rough and startling in Harry's buzzing ear, jolting him out of his stupor. "I'm fucking you more stupid than even you are now, git—_tomorrow_. And—the day—after! Day after that, too. Be ready for me, Harry. No mercy."

"Ah? Ah-hah?"

"Be willing. Be waiting."

It was a threat; that sort of thing Harry recognized instinctively, after years upon years of it, relentless. Ad he reacted instinctively, just as he always had before, before Malfoy had dragged him into this endless sensual feast and claimed every spark of Harry's flagging will for his own amusement.

"Ye-yeah?" he asked, with barely enough breath in his laboring diaphragm to do so. "Promise?"

"Tomorrow," Malfoy repeated grimly. Thrust up with a sideways grind and Harry groaned his absolute surrender, the scant inch he'd held back in fear collapsing before Malfoy's demand. He slid slack into arms that gripped him tightly, and he'd not noticed this before but Malfoy was firm all over—a bloody rock he'd been ruthlessly castaway upon, and as obdurate. "Harry, tomorrow—and the next day—and the next."

"I—but—you—" Harry got out before that tongue claimed his again, and gods-Merlin-fuck but Malfoy was anal about these things. He wanted what he wanted, it seemed, and he wasn't stopping till he got it. No choice but to give in then, as every other part of Harry begged his last lingering bits of good sense and healthy sense of self-preservation to do. He didn't understand; no, he didn't. But…but maybe he didn't need to?

Oh, please? _Please_!

What had he to lose, anyway? Loneliness? Lack? Fear?

"Yes," he muttered, when Malfoy allowed him a chance. "Please, yes."

"Say 'Draco'."

"Draco, yes, yes, yes," and when Draco bit his shoulder, sucking, Harry was a real goner; he'd say anything—anything at all, in any language Malfoy wanted him to learn. "Draco, please! Now? Let me come now?"

"Remember you said that," Malfoy growled, and one hand brushed Harry's cock. It only took that and it was over. "Harry."

A flash of light, brilliant as Malfoy's hair and as blindingly pure as the molten grip of his wide-open gaze.

"Oh-gods-Draco!" Harry whimpered, and let himself be gone, be carried far and away and conversely clamped fast and immobile and filled with a boundless heat and great gouts of salty fluid. He was taken, and glad of it. The relief was immense.

"There, there, Harry," Malfoy patted him on the shoulder blade a little while after, as they slowly slid into a heap of jumbled elbows and knees on Hermione's Transfigured handkerchief, the last swells of their entangled magics ebbing to a peaceful lull. "You'll grow used to it, I'm sure, and I'll take good care of you."

A hand tugged a spare robe over Harry's goose-pimpled shoulders; he was snug and warm and lazy-cozy and tomorrow had never mattered less to Harry. He couldn't even conceive of tomorrow. He'd arrive there when he had to, not before—

"—that idiot Pansy spent ages trying to convince me to make up Amortentia, you know, and I always put her off. Which isn't easy; she nags, Harry. You know how that is, right? Girls do, damn them."

"Mmmm…mmm." Harry had no energy spare to care. He was a dishrag, and well-used one, wrung dry.

"But she wouldn't shut her gob about it, so I nipped round and whipped some cologne—lavender waters, and some lime rind and a few scarabs, crushed—made it sparkle. All to convince her to drop it—leave us alone—"

"Mmm-hmmm. Draco…" Draco smelt so very good; salty now, yes, but sweet and mouthwatering. Harry—had he the energy—could've happily eaten right up.

"Which she never did, because Pans doesn't, so then I had to use it—wear it around, like some ponced up prat, just to—"

Which fancy gave Harry great ideas, naturally, and he resolved he would, as soon as he was able. Draco's cock was rather choice.

"Mmm...m'alright, m'kay."

"But really, it's for always, Harry. How I want you. Want to shag you blind, want to hold you tight—keep you 'round me for always—ever…"

But…Draco's sultry fond murmurings were sending Harry straight off to Nod; with a sigh, he surrendered, barely listening 'cept to know it was good, whatever it was Draco said, and he'd likely like it very much when it happened.

"—take care of you, alright? Like you should've been, idiot, all this time. You know, if I'd any idea, _any_ at all—"

"Mmm'okay," Harry moaned, shifting just enough to escape a stray rock beneath his shoulder blade. For now, though, he wasn't comprehending so much as a single syllable. Bee buzz in his head, those Malfoy tones, and all that mattered was the lax laziness that left him replete and complete: he'd never felt this brilliant. There was nothing to compare.

"—and always, and always; never you worry, Harry._ Always_. And I wasn't truly planning to brew the Amortentia, Harry—that was a placebo we made up, nitwit. Didn't do a fucking thing 'cept stink up my clothes. So you were safe, all along, alright? Don't let them tell you different; this is all _au_ _naturale_. Me, I mean—what you're smelling." He cocked up an eyebrow, inquisitively. "Get it? You follow?"

"Um?"

Harry blinked, narrowed his eyes, sorted the facts and brightened considerably—all in the space of five seconds.

_Hmm_. Something about Amortentia, and how Draco hadn't actually brewed it. Something about perfume, or cologne, actually, and how it was really only _Draco_ he smelt, all along, and nothing else worth bothering his head about.

A whole great lot of words spewed at him, too, about Draco feeling rather anxious—concerned that Harry might possibly have believed he'd been set up, when really he hadn't been. Which was silly of Draco, because if nothing else he knew Draco very well—seven years, yeah?—and the git might prank but he absolutely wouldn't screw with his best enemy's head, not like _that_. Draco wasn't exactly Romilda Vane, was he? Not by a long shot. So, okay, no—no head games.

Nor heart, either. Draco was long past pulling Harry's chain in other ways; hadn't mentioned his Mum in ages. Likely never would again, after what his own Mum had done, either. That was alright, then.

…Except, naturally, Harry had been led on by his own inclinations—but that was a bit of alright, wasn't it? One should, after all, follow one's nose. Worked for pigs and truffles; should work for horny Wizards, too, yeah? Er…make that smitten Wizards. As this wasn't just about getting off, either—far from it.

"Harry?" The pale brows were beginning to crinkle into a fretful pucker. "Harry, you_ have_ been list—"

Harry grinned; all was well—in fact, all was fucking fantastic! Couldn't be better, really.

"…Got it!"


End file.
